Faith and Doubt
by Dolen Feredir
Summary: When d'Artagnan experiences a close call that leaves him shaken, the other Musketeers reminisce about times they, too, believed they faced death alone.
1. Earth

**Faith and Doubt**

Notes: Set just after series 1. The timing isn't really important to the story, except that episode 8 (The Challenge) has already taken place. Any mistakes (geographical, historical or grammatical) are, of course, mine alone.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Earth**

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan gasped, breathing heavily in the cool evening air. He panted, limbs shaking and eyes blinking madly as he tried to compose himself.

Porthos shook his head, helping the younger man to sit on the cold ground before putting a comforting arm around him. "It's all right," he said calmly. "You'll be fine."

D'Artagnan shuddered beneath the large man's arm and didn't respond. In the encroaching darkness, his features were difficult to make out and what was visible was coated in thick layers of dirt and debris. Tracks of clean skin marked his face where tears had escaped the Musketeer's red-rimmed and irritated eyes. As though sensing Porthos's scrutiny, d'Artagnan raised his hand weakly to scrub at his eyes, swearing softly as he only succeeded in getting more dirt in them.

Porthos sighed in relief as he caught sight of Aramis and Athos approaching with a skin of water and some relatively clean rags.

"How are we doing?" Aramis asked lightly, his voice taking on the tone he used primarily with frightened women and curious children. Porthos frowned at him, but d'Artagnan didn't seem to notice his friend's cautious approach.

Aramis wet one of the rags and moved closer to d'Artagnan. "I'm just going to get some of that dirt off of you so I can see if there are any injuries," he explained softly. "It won't hurt."

D'Artagnan didn't respond, seemingly resigned to allowing the other man to check him over. Porthos watched the proceedings carefully, looking for any sign of the young Gascon's usual spark. Seeing the younger Musketeer so pliant was unnerving.

Athos had taken to pacing the perimeter of their makeshift camp, anger evident in every movement he made. Porthos could sympathize. They had almost lost their friend and the close call had left them all shaken, though none more so than the man in question.

Aramis had finished cleaning d'Artagnan's face and checked him over carefully, gently patting his arm in a comforting gesture. "Well, my friend, it would seem that you have managed to emerge relatively unscathed. A few scratches and terribly dirty, but I daresay you'll live to fight another day."

Athos stopped in his tracks and looked up at Aramis's words, his face still glowering in an almost menacing expression. To anyone familiar with the Musketeer's ways, it was obvious that Athos was furious at the man who had put their newest companion in danger, but Porthos was certain that d'Artagnan would misinterpret Athos's anger as being directed at him.

He spoke before the Athos could. "That madman won't though, will he? You did a good job, d'Artagnan. You should be proud."

D'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "There's nothing to be proud of," he muttered, keeping his gaze resolutely on the ground in front of him.

"You survived something terrible," Aramis pointed out. "You showed great courage."

Another shake of the head was the only response.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged concerned glances over the Gascon's bowed form. This was incredibly unusual behaviour from the usually vibrant man.

Then again, his ordeal had been a particularly harrowing one.

The Musketeers had been following rumours of a deranged man living in the woods outside of Paris. Apparently, the man had been laying traps along the road for unwary travellers. It had started with simple mischief; everything from fallen tree branches to holes dug into the road. Initially, it was more of an inconvenience than a real danger, but then the madman upped the ante.

He began using gunpowder.

While no one had been killed so far, the man had rigged numerous ambushes in which property had been damaged and people shaken. Added to that were the concerns about where he had even procured the powder in the first place and just how far he intended to go with his game.

The Musketeers had ridden out three days prior, scanning their surroundings carefully, determined not get caught in an explosion. D'Artagnan in particular had expressed a desire to conclude their business without having another _powder incident_. The older Musketeers had frowned grimly at that reminder of Vadim and his near-successful attempt on d'Artagnan's life.

Despite their caution, it was on the morning of the second day when they realized that there were, indeed, traps hidden along the wooded roads and rocky outcroppings.

The first indication had come only as the tree in front of them had suddenly come alight in a brilliant explosion of fire and rain of woodchips. The men had drawn their weapons, scanning the trees for any sign of their attacker. Without warning, more explosions sounded behind them, startling their horses and creating an atmosphere of chaos and confusion.

With nowhere to direct their attack, the Musketeers had spread themselves out, hoping both to make less of an easy target as well as to spot their attacker.

It was d'Artagnan who saw him first; a weasel-faced man watching from up on the hill. The man was dirt-streaked and manic, jumping with glee as he watched the fires burn. D'Artagnan shouted a warning to his friends and promptly rode towards his quarry as quickly as he could.

The man ran as soon as he realized he had been spotted, but his Musketeer pursuer was gaining quickly. D'Artagnan was forced to dismount as the man reached a rock wall and disappeared into a small opening. Drawing his pistol, d'Artagnan cautiously approached the hole, readying himself for gunfire from within. He could hear the other Musketeers riding through the trees behind him.

"Over here!" he yelled, not taking his eyes of the dark entrance. He heard Porthos shout something in reply, but the young man was already inching his way into the cave. The madman had held no weapon as far as d'Artagnan could see, but he was loath to risk that the man might have a cache of arms within the narrow shaft.

Sucking in a deep breath and hoping that the man was unarmed, the Musketeer rushed into the cave.

Even as he did it, d'Artagnan knew it was a foolhardy move. What possessed him to think it was a good idea was beyond him as he found himself instinctively keeping close to the wall. There had clearly been a number of rock-slides over the years judging by the large piles of rubble lining the entranceway. Thankfully, the path cleared as d'Artagnan made his way farther into the cave.

The passageway was deeper than he had originally thought and it wasn't until he saw the glimmer of an open flame ahead that the Musketeer stopped.

At that moment, d'Artagnan realized how much trouble he was in.

The madman was standing before him, a lit candle held aloft in his right hand. His grinning face was bathed in a flickering glow, lending a sinister shadow to his expression. D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat as he noticed that the man was holding the end of a long fuse in his other hand.

D'Artagnan came to a stop in front of him and raised his pistol, hoping to stave off the impending disaster. "Monsieur, you need to put down the fuse. I'm going to have to insist that you come with me."

The man shook his head and smiled. "I knew they'd send Musketeers. I had hoped so, and here you are! Now, we'll die together!" With a chilling laugh, the man touched the flame to the fuse and watched as the sparks began to fly.

Eyes widening in horror, d'Artagnan turned to run. "Get back!" he yelled, hoping his friends would hear him and heed his call. The fuse burned quickly, branching off at multiple points as it did so. Knowing he couldn't stop them all and cursing the fact that he was once again facing death by gunpowder, d'Artagnan raced to the opening. The debris lining the tunnel hampered his retreat and he clenched his fists as he clambered over the rocks.

He saw the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was too late for him to reach it. There was a deafening noise and the world simply collapsed.

* * *

D'Artagnan wasn't certain how long he'd lain in the darkness before he became fully aware once more. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the darkness was absolute. He coughed painfully, feeling the bruises beginning to form around his ribcage. Sitting up left him dizzy, a state that was not helped by the disorientation of being unable to see.

He was still alive.

"Athos! Porthos!" d'Artagnan called out, coughing as he did. "Aramis! Can you hear me?"

He ran his hands along the crumbled wall in front of him, a solid barrier of earth and rock. He felt a sense of complete dread fall over him. D'Artagnan pounded on the heavy debris, knowing even as he did so that it was a futile gesture.

He was buried alive in the walls of the earth.

Letting out a growl of rage, d'Artagnan kicked the rocks. He paused as he heard a noise behind him.

Behind him . . .

Why was there still space behind him?

He couldn't see anything, but the cavern behind him echoed loudly from his movements.

Feeling around for his pistol, d'Artagnan was dismayed when he could not locate it. He settled for his sword instead and began feeling his way along the walls until he was deeper in the chamber.

His feet kept hitting debris and d'Artagnan couldn't stop the dry coughs that plagued his progress leaving his approach less-than-stealthy. It wasn't until his foot impacted something soft that he knew he'd found the madman.

A soft chuckle greeted him.

D'Artagnan pointed his blade at the location where he assumed the man's throat to be.

"Why?" the Musketeer asked, his voice dangerously low. "Why did you blow up the entrance?"

Another laugh had d'Artagnan pushing the blade closer to his enemy's flesh. "Answer me!"

"Now, you are mine," the man replied, a hint of manic glee in his voice. "It is only fitting."

D'Artagnan shook his head, knowing the other man couldn't see it. "I don't understand."

"When we die, we shall go together into the next world," came the reply. "And you shall be my servant, bound to serve he who defeated you and sent you into death."

The Gascon frowned. "Are you mad? It doesn't work like that!"

"Does it not? Did I not seal your fate? Did I not cause your death?"

"I'm not dead yet!" d'Artagnan replied, anger growing in him. "And there is no way, dead or otherwise, that I will ever serve you! It's crazy!"

"And yet, here we are."

D'Artagnan let out a deep sigh. "You can think what you like, but my friends are out there and they will not rest until they have saved me."

"They think you are buried under the earth. There is nothing they can do," the man _tsked_ as though correcting an unruly child. "We have only to wait for death."

* * *

It had been easy to ignore the lunatic's ravings at first. D'Artagnan had kept his sword ready, but hadn't needed it thus far.

Despite his clearly unhinged nature, the man seemed genuinely content to allow nature to take its course and for the two of them to die a slow death of starvation or dehydration. D'Artagnan had explored the tunnel as thoroughly as he could in the all-pervasive darkness, but there were no other ways out that he could find. The cavern went on for quite a distance, leading the Musketeer to believe it was possibly the opening to an old mine shaft. At least he wouldn't have to worry about suffocation. The shaft was long enough to ensure there was enough air for other manners of death to be more likely.

Though his companion had finally quieted, d'Artagnan had learned his name was Maurice and that he had rigged the fuse to collapse the entrance to ensure just this scenario. It seemed dying slowly with a Musketeer was his way of guaranteeing a desirable afterlife with an armed bodyguard.

Just who he thought he'd need protection _against_ in the afterlife was causing d'Artagnan some confusion. Then again, a man with Maurice's charming outlook on life probably expected to end up in Hell and thought bringing along a bodyguard might save him from the Devil.

Regardless, d'Artagnan had lost track of the hours he had spent waiting for rescue. There was no sound from the entrance and part of him worried that his friends had been caught in the blast. Perhaps they were there, buried under the earth and rock that he had been pounding on. Maybe they weren't responding to him because they couldn't. Maybe they were crushed and bloody beneath the weight of-

He stopped himself there.

The inactivity was driving him crazy. He had initially tried digging himself out, but the shifting rocks led him to fear that he would only succeed in bringing more earth down on top of himself.

Maurice had remained silent. That, more than anything, had concerned d'Artagnan. When Maurice was quiet, he could be anywhere or doing anything. The Musketeer had no illusions about the other man's sanity. Maurice could get tired of waiting and simply walk up behind d'Artagnan and slip a dagger into his ribs.

Not that his careful, but blind, search of the cavern and its other occupant had yielded any sign of a dagger. For that matter, even some rope would have been useful to bind Maurice and protect against any potential attack.

More hours passed without sound.

D'Artagnan fidgeted restlessly as he sat leaning against the wall. Maurice remained silent. The dark spread out before the Musketeer until the weight of it was more than the weight of all the rock above him. It was so thick, he felt if he could only cut through it, he should see the light beyond.

In all his years, d'Artagnan had never known darkness so complete. Even in the woods in the middle of the darkest night there were shadows. There were hints of shapes and form. Here, there was nothing but the darkness and the waiting death it concealed.

He clenched his fists and drummed them against his knees. He felt madness coming for him. How long had he been in here?

When he could no longer take it, d'Artagnan headed to the entrance again. He didn't care if he brought the entire cave down upon himself, he would not sit idly by and wait for rescue.

He started near the top, shifting what rocks he could and sweeping away the loose dirt that filled the gaps. Throwing the rocks behind him, he didn't care if Maurice was in the line of fire or not.

Working solidly, he paused only twice when the wall groaned ominously. The second time it happened, Maurice laughed again.

"You only hasten your own demise," the madman warned with a note of glee in his voice. "One step closer to the glorious world beyond."

The Musketeer ignored him.

"We will die together," Maurice continued. "Death waits, but it is so patient, watching us. Can you feel it here, lurking in the darkness? I feel its fingers on my spine. It comes for us, Musketeer. Do you feel it?"

Despite himself, d'Artagnan felt a shiver run down his body. Maurice was hitting far too close to home.

"This is your world now, boy. No more light. No more breeze on your face. Only darkness. An eternity of darkness in a tomb of rock, forsaken by your friends-"

"Stop!" d'Artagnan cut the man off, crossing the distance to where Maurice sat against the wall. His hands were around the man's throat before he even realized he had moved. "Stop talking! I am going to get out of here!"

Maurice let out a gurgling noise as d'Artagnan's fingers tightened. He hammered ineffectively against the Musketeer's grip before d'Artagnan realized what he was doing. In horror, he released his grip, letting Maurice sag to the side gasping for breath.

"Keep your mouth shut!" the Musketeer warned, retreating back to the tunnel entrance. He could feel Maurice's eyes follow him, though neither man could see the other.

D'Artagnan's heart pounded in his chest.

He had almost killed Maurice in cold blood. Lunatic or not, he couldn't simply murder the man.

He closed his eyes, letting himself believe that the darkness was of his own choice rather than the result of his earthen prison. Leaning his forehead against the rock, he took a shuddering breath.

No one was coming. It had been too long. There should have been some sound, some indication that his friends were out there, but there was nothing.

He had faced death before, but never like this; not with the interminable wait for his own demise, or the growing hopelessness that came from being trapped in the dark. Not with his friends so near and yet with no sign that they were even _trying_ to save him.

Why weren't they coming for him?

He bit his lip. He couldn't let himself think like that. They were coming for him. He just had to-

Pain erupted at the back of his head.

Bright light, for the first time in what seemed like years, flashed before him, but it was not the harsh glare of the sun.

He spun and flung his arm up to defend against the next assault, barely managing to deflect the rock as Maurice brought it down again.

D'Artagnan heard the rock fall to the side as he punched Maurice in the stomach. His attacker responded by flinging himself at the stunned Musketeer and driving him bodily to the ground.

D'Artagnan cried out involuntarily as he hit the rocks beneath him and found himself pinned by Maurice and his wiry strength.

"You dare to attack me?" Maurice growled, bringing his hands up to grip d'Artagnan's throat. "You ungrateful lout! I was willing to grant you an eternity of honour! You would have served at my side forever and instead you refuse!"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and grabbed at the strangling hands. He kicked his feet, but was unable to dislodge the madman.

"You are not worthy of such an boon! I will not look upon you anymore! You will die here and be forgotten in the dark!"

Reaching out with his right hand, d'Artagnan sought anything that he could use as a weapon. He looked up into the face of his would-be murderer, but could see nothing. Fetid breath fell over him and he could hear the other man gasping as though he himself were choking instead of d'Artagnan. The Musketeer finally felt a loose rock beneath his fingers and grasped it tightly before bringing it up to slam against his attacker's head.

Maurice cried out, but did not release his hold.

Coloured spots danced in front of d'Artagnan's eyes and he felt a final surge of desperate energy come over him. He hit Maurice again and again until the lunatic's grip faltered and he teetered to the side. A final blow brought the man down with a sickening crunch and d'Artagnan was aware of the wet, sticky blood covering his hands. There was a thick, coppery smell in the air and d'Artagnan almost retched.

He breathed heavily for a moment before reaching down to check Maurice. There was no need to search for a pulse. The moment d'Artagnan's fingers found the man's skull, he knew there was no way he had survived.

Dropping the rock, d'Artagnan crawled a short distance away and gagged.

* * *

Hours passed.

The darkness grew more pervasive. The silence grew louder. The smell of blood was everywhere.

D'Artagnan could feel the presence of Maurice's body near the entrance to the cave. Even without sight, he knew it was there. The Musketeer had retreated farther back into the tunnel, unable to stand being near the dead man any longer.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself small in the darkness.

The darkness was his tomb and his only companion was death.

It waited for him.

He could hear it coming for him, sending shivers down his spine.

He was going to die alone in the darkness, trapped with the corpse of a madman for all eternity.

Alone and forgotten.

He heard death coming.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for it to claim him.

There was a crumbling sound. His world was collapsing. His death would come and he would be buried in the earth -

"D'Artagnan!"

Death knew his name.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?"

He laughed. Who could ignore death when it came for them?

There was more crumbling and . . . cursing?

"It's not him! It's not d'Artagnan!"

The voice sounded relieved. The voice was familiar . . .

"Give me the light!"

Pain shot through his skull as blinding brilliance made itself known behind his closed eyelids.

"D'Artagnan! He's here!"

His eyes shot open as he felt hands on his shoulders. He fought them off with a ferocity that surprised even him. Just because death was coming didn't mean that he would go easily.

"Easy, d'Artagnan. We've got you. You're going to be fine." Another voice. Another jolt of recognition, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't going to give in.

More hands were on him, gently pinning his flailing fists to his side. He tried to kick, but there was no space to manoeuvre.

"D'Artagnan, look at me," the voice was commanding and so familiar, d'Artagnan felt himself moving to obey before he even realized he was moving.

He blinked against the bright light, tears filling his eyes as they struggled against the pain.

A blurry figure came into focus. "Athos?"

"We're here, d'Artagnan. You're safe," the older Musketeer intoned, his grip tight on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

The Gascon looked to the side. "Aramis? Porthos?"

Aramis smiled. "We're getting you out of here."

"Can you stand?" Porthos asked, not waiting for a reply as he helped the younger man to his feet. He pulled d'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder and gripped him securely, pausing only to make sure he was somewhat steady before heading to the entrance.

The dim light coming through the small hole near the top of the wall was enough to bring fresh tears to d'Artagnan's eyes. It was clearly twilight, but even the encroaching darkness was nowhere near as absolute as that of his tomb.

Aramis passed them and scrambled up the fallen rocks, ready to help d'Artagnan make the climb to freedom.

In the flickering light of lantern he now realized Athos carried, d'Artagnan caught a glimpse of Maurice's body. He stared for a moment before Athos stepped between them and blocked his view.

Porthos helped heave d'Artagnan up the rocks to Aramis's waiting arms and before he knew it, d'Artagnan was outside in the cool air for the first time in what seemed like eternity.

He felt Porthos's steadying grip once more as he was led a short distance away. He was aware of the other men talking to him, but he couldn't form a reply. Not yet.

He stared up at the rising moon and felt like weeping. Never before had he seen anything so beautiful.

Athos and Aramis stepped away and he was hardly aware as Porthos tried to get him settled.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan gasped, breathing heavily in the cool evening air. He panted, limbs shaking and eyes blinking madly as he tried to compose himself.

Porthos shook his head, helping the younger man to sit on the cold ground before putting a comforting arm around him. "It's all right," he said calmly. "You'll be fine."

* * *

The men had camped a short distance from the cave, unable to move farther away in the fading light and unwilling to make d'Artagnan travel when he was so clearly exhausted.

Despite the horrors he had faced and the all-consuming weariness in his body, d'Artagnan could not bring himself to sleep. He worried that he would wake to find himself once more entombed within the earth and feeling the grasping fingers of dark despair reaching for him.

The other men seemed to understand, staying awake with the younger man, making certain they were always close and that the fire stayed brightly lit.

Through it all, d'Artagnan barely spoke. All he could think of was the fear he had felt and the total certainty that no one was coming for him.

Of course, that was a thought unworthy of a Musketeer. His friends would never have left him to die and he felt ungrateful for having let the notion cross his mind.

He found out from the others that he had been trapped for little more than a day and half, and that had been all it had taken to break him.

He felt ashamed.

He recognized that the others were watching him worriedly, but he couldn't assuage their fears. How could he, when all he felt was fear himself?

"You had us quite worried," Aramis's voice cut through the silence. "We're sorry it took so long to get to you, but we were digging with daggers and our bare hands. Porthos was like a man possessed; I swear he would have moved the entire hill, eventually."

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan said softly, his voice cracking from lack of use.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Athos stated firmly. "It was that man who caused all this and he's dead. None of this was your fault."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Not that. I mean for after."

He looked up, only mildly surprised to see the intensity of the other men's expressions as they watched him closely.

"I thought I would die in there," he explained hesitatingly. "I thought . . . I thought perhaps you weren't . . ." He trailed off, unable to give voice to the words he needed to say. "I shouldn't have doubted you," he finished quietly.

Porthos let out a loud breath and patted d'Artagnan's knee reassuringly. "Don't you worry about that. It's normal to have doubt in life-threatening situations."

"The important thing is that you're alive," Aramis agreed with a nod. "Besides, it was the first time one of us has been buried in a mountain. It was a stressful time for everyone."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos and was surprised to find a small smile on the man's face. "It wouldn't be the first time one of us believed we would die alone in a hopeless situation. It probably won't be the last, either."

"Athos," Aramis chided lightly. "We're trying to cheer the boy up, not drive him to drink."

"You can't deny that you've done the same thing," Porthos interjected smoothly, pointing at Aramis. The large man grinned. "I remember the time when you nearly met your end dangling off a -"

"Yes, well, we don't really need to go there, do we?" Aramis interrupted, eyes widening in alarm. "In any case, you were no better, as I recall."

"What were you dangling off?" d'Artagnan asked, curious in spite of his lingering guilt.

"Nothing. I was not dangling off anything."

"That's actually true," Athos agreed. "You were more _clinging_."

"What were you _clinging_ to?" d'Artagnan asked, rephrasing his question to Aramis.

Aramis ran his fingers through his hair, discomfort evident from his body language.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologized. "It is an unpleasant memory and I do not wish to cause discomfort."

A long sigh was Aramis's reply.

"You were trying to explain to him that we've all faced something dark and horrible and how that doesn't reflect poorly on us," Porthos pointed out.

D'Artagnan could tell from the set of his shoulders the moment Aramis capitulated. "Very well. I'll tell him the tale of my moment of hopeless despair if you both agree to do the same."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a quick glance.

"Fine," Porthos shrugged.

Athos stood and headed over to the horses. "I think we'll need something stronger to drink if we're going to be walking down this path."

He returned with two wineskins passing the first to d'Artagnan and the second to Aramis.

Aramis drank deeply before passing the skin to Porthos. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Have you ever heard of the cliffs of Étretat?"

D'Artagnan thought for a moment. "Normandy?"

"That's the place," Aramis confirmed lightly. "Normally, I'd say such a place was a wonder. The cliffs seem to glow white in the sunlight. I've heard sailors say that they can be seen from great distance, guiding them home. They are high, too. So high that it seems like you can see the farthest reaches of the world from the top."

His voice faded as he thought back to the first time he'd seen the cliffs of Étretat.

"I had wanted to see the cliffs for a long time. I never thought for a moment that I might die there . . ."

TBC


	2. Air

**Chapter 2: Air**

"It wasn't sunny when I was at the cliffs of Étretat. I didn't get to see them gleaming in the light. It was cold, rainy, and the wind was as bitter as I've ever felt in summer." Aramis smiled slightly as he remembered the miserable conditions.

"It was about three years ago. We were waiting to escort someone back to Paris," Porthos explained as Aramis trailed off. "Someone coming from England who didn't want to be seen landing in Calais, if you know what I mean. We'd been in the rain for days, but we had to wait along the cliffs and beaches of Étretat for our _cargo_ to arrive."

D'Artagnan nodded as he took Porthos's words to mean that the trio had been waiting to meet a spy returning from England.

"And, of course, the secret nature of the assignment meant that we didn't have an exact idea of when they'd be arriving, leaving us more than a little exposed," Aramis added. "It was, as it still is, not a safe area to travel, particularly for people trying to remain inconspicuous. We were dressed as simple travellers, but even wanderers get noticed if they linger too long in one place."

"The place was an ambush waiting to happen," Athos weighed in. "We needed to control the cliff so we could spot our friend's arrival. Being on a cliff, however, meant that there would be no easy way to retreat if we were attacked."

"Why meet there, then?" d'Artagnan questioned with a frown. "Surely, there must have been other options?"

Porthos shook his head. "Some administrator thought it would be for the best. The cliffs were easily recognizable from far away and our guest was apparently not travelling with seasoned sailors."

"That, and it was closer to Paris, meaning less time on the road," Aramis continued the tale. "Anyone seeing the boat would hopefully have assumed it was going to La Havre, not stopping in the middle of nowhere. So, we found ourselves keeping watch from the top of the cliff, but true to our usual luck, we soon found ourselves under the attention of some unscrupulous characters."

"Somehow, they must have known our purpose there." Athos placed another piece of wood on the fire and wiped his hands on his trousers. "They attacked without warning or provocation."

"They outnumbered us, but we weren't prepared to give in." Aramis smiled as Porthos's disdainful expression showed just how the large man felt about surrender. "We couldn't leave without collecting that fellow, either. So, it was either clear out the riffraff, or fail our mission."

* * *

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted a warning as another sword-wielding man lunged towards his friend.

Aramis reacted quickly, whirling to face the new threat and dispatching him with his main gauche. He turned back to his previous opponent, who had taken the momentary distraction as an opening to close the gap between himself and the Musketeer.

Without taking his attention off the man in front of him, Aramis tried to listen to how his friends were faring. There were too many men facing them. Even under ideal conditions, the three would be hard-pressed to defeat the sheer numbers against them.

Conditions were far from ideal.

The wind was beating against the rain-drenched men, plastering their dark cloaks to their sides and hampering their movements. Visibility was poor as their hair was whipped about their faces, hats having long ago been blown from their heads.

"Oh, wonderful!"

Aramis risked a glance as he heard Athos's sarcastic groan. Several of their attackers were running to the sloping side of the ridge, heading for the beach. While normally such a retreat would be welcomed, it was immediately evident that the men were not fleeing in terror. A small boat was visible, having come in close to shore while the men were distracted. It tossed in the large waves and there could be no question that it was the vessel the Musketeers were to meet.

Apparently, the other men intended to meet it as well.

"Gentlemen, I do believe our guest was expected," Athos said through gritted teeth. "If you'll excuse me," he killed the man in front of him with little ceremony before turning, "then I shall go and make a nuisance of myself." He set off after the men, undoing his waterlogged cloak and letting it fall heavily to the ground behind him as he ran.

"Damn it!" Porthos cursed as more of the men broke off to storm the beach, leaving only four on the cliff.

"Go, Porthos!" Aramis cried. "I'll deal with these ones!"

There was only a moment of hesitation, but in the end, Porthos's sense of duty won out.

"Don't take too long," the big Musketeer warned as he raced after the others.

Aramis promptly killed one of his adversaries, the consequence of a moment of inattention on the dead man's part, and readied himself for the next challenger. "Don't worry," he muttered seriously. "I won't."

He covered Porthos's retreat, giving just enough attention to each of the three remaining men that they did not merely bypass him to aid their companions on the beach.

Apparently, they felt secure in their superior numbers as they began to toy with the remaining Musketeer. Aramis found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could just shoot them. Unfortunately, he hadn't had time to reload since the initial attack and he was not anticipating getting the opportunity in the near future.

Blocking another blow aimed at his side, Aramis managed a lucky slice into his nearest attacker's leg. The man went down with a cry and a gush of dark blood. Without pausing for closer examination, Aramis knew the wound would probably prove fatal in a matter of minutes.

The remaining two men spread out, trying to prevent Aramis from being able to counter them. The Musketeer grimaced. He was tiring quickly and they knew it. Another gust of wind slapped his cloak around his legs. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in the fighting, Aramis undid the clasp and let the heavy garment fall to the ground.

Stepping back carefully in order to avoid the pile of fabric at his feet, Aramis grinned charmingly at the two remaining foes.

"Who will be next, hmm?" Aramis smiled and gestured at the nearest man with the point of his sword. "You, perhaps?"

The man raised his blade mockingly in response before attacking. Aramis gritted his teeth as he fought the large man, though he couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. By calling the man out, he'd essentially made it a duel, leaving the remaining attacker to watch and wait for his turn. The notion of leaving a duel to only the people involved was so ingrained that Aramis was willing to bet his opponents didn't even realize that they'd stopped attacking together. This gave the Musketeer a slight advantage.

_Very slight_, Aramis conceded as he barely managed to dodge a well-aimed slice at his midsection.

It was more luck than anything that saw his opponent lose his footing on the slippery grass just as Aramis was in position to dispatch him. The large man had barely begun to sag under the realization that he was going to die, and Aramis had only just started to turn to his next foe, when said foe launched himself at the Musketeer.

His body struck with great force, driving the air from Aramis's lungs, but failing to bring him to the ground. The cry of inhuman rage sent a shiver down Aramis's spine and he belatedly came to the conclusion that the figure currently trying to pummel him bloody must have been kin to the man now dying several feet away. His attacker was so enraged, he didn't even attempt to use his weapons and seemed wholly intent on doing Aramis in with his fists alone.

Aramis had no such compunctions and tried to bring his dagger to bear as the man was too close for sword-work. The man grabbed Aramis's left arm in a firm grip, not giving him a chance to use his blade. Aramis's opponent then kneed him in the stomach, sending the Musketeer doubling over in pain. The other man did not loosen his grip.

Aramis could not afford any time to recover. He brought his sword hilt up and slammed his adversary in the side of the head, finally breaking the man's hold on his arm.

Even such a solid strike had little effect. By the time Aramis had managed to draw a single breath, his foe had already seemed to recover from the blow and was charging once more, blood streaming down his forehead.

The wind howled, sending more icy rain into Aramis's eyes and it was only then that he realized just how close to the edge of the cliffs they had come. His opponent showed no such awareness as he lowered his head and struck Aramis soundly. Aramis had no time to dodge as the other man's arms encircled him tightly. Panic flooded through him as he was driven to the edge of the slippery slope and the long drop beyond. His foe didn't seem to comprehend the danger, and it was already too late for Aramis to find safer footing. The man screamed in rage and tightened his grip, dragging both combatants further off balance.

They fell to the ground in a tangled heap of struggling limbs, sliding down the wet grass towards the edge, drawing nearer to the rocky precipice. Aramis dropped his sword as the breath was once again knocked out of him. With a strangled cry, the other combatant realized the precariousness of his position a mere moment before he began slip over the cliff. Aramis swore and dug his heels in to the ground, but the other man had a death-grip on the Musketeer's leg, effectively drawing him ever closer to the edge of the earth.

Aramis brought his dagger up, stabbing at the man and fighting to free himself from the iron grasp while kicking madly to try and dislodge his human anchor. The man was partially over the cliff and panic had fully set in, lending him an almost inhuman strength. Aramis stabbed again at his foe, his own desperation growing as he felt himself being dragged over the edge. The man's fingers loosened slightly and Aramis thought for a brief moment that he had escaped his fate. Using his dagger, he pounded the point into the grass, trying to pull himself up with it while still kicking his attacker in an attempt to dislodge him.

With a final heave, the weight on Aramis's legs finally relented and the Musketeer allowed himself a small breath of relief. He grimaced at the terrified scream from his opponent, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the rain and the raging wind. Adjusting his grip on his knife, Aramis tried to pull himself to safety. The brief moment of relief he had enjoyed proved fleeting as the loose soil gave way beneath him and Aramis went over the side.

Aramis didn't even have the breath to scream. He dropped his dagger, grabbing blindly for something, anything, to slow his descent as he slid down the sharply-sloped incline. His feet found a small rocky outcropping just as his hands found purchase on the rock. Both held fast.

His heart beat wildly in his chest and it was several moments before Aramis fully realized that he was no longer falling. The wind whipped around him mercilessly, pulling at his clothing and trying to grasp him in its icy fingers to send him falling into the sea below.

His body hurt. He had slid several feet down jagged rock before managing to stop himself and he could feel the blood from numerous scratches dripping down his face. A small glance to the side made his blood run cold. If he had gone any farther, it would have been a straight drop down into the sea.

His fingers cramped painfully, but Aramis didn't dare attempt to shift to a more comfortable position, nor did he try to see the fate of his final opponent. The fellow was more than likely already swallowed by the raging waters below and Aramis had no intention of joining him.

He pushed his body as close as he could to the rocks in order to minimize the effect of the wind. Sharp gusts pulled at his body mercilessly, sending tendrils of panic into the Musketeer's heart. It was almost as though the air was howling in fury at being denied its prize.

Aramis pressed his face into the solid wall before him, praying under his breath that his strength would hold. He didn't know what to do. The normally self-reliant man had no hope of rescuing himself from such a predicament. He needed help and his friends were too far away to provide it.

From his precarious position, Aramis could not see the beach or the boat. He couldn't tell if his friends were still fighting or if the battle had already been decided. He had no idea if Porthos and Athos were even still alive. Squeezing his eyes shut, Aramis refused to believe that they were dead. They would come for him. All he had to do was hold on.

There was no other choice.

He felt his limbs trembling under the strain of supporting his body. The aches of the fight made themselves known and left him gasping. What air he did draw was a struggle as the wind sought to steal his breath before he could fully draw it.

All he could do was hold on. The others would come. He couldn't fall. He couldn't do that to his friends. They needed him and he would not fail them.

Just as they would not fail him. They would kill the men on the beach. They would secure their cargo. Then they would save him.

Even in the middle of a fight, Aramis knew that the others would be watching for him and growing more worried with every second that passed without his arrival. They would come for him.

He just had to hold on.

The rain pounded the rocks with each gust of wind rendering the Musketeer's unstable perch ever more dangerous. The extreme stress and lack of air was making Aramis's head spin. His leg muscles trembled as painful spasms tore through them.

He lost track of how long he had been gripping the rocks. His world was comprised only of the need to hang on and the fear of plunging to his death.

Aramis could no longer pray. Breath coming in small pants now, Aramis felt his strength waning. It was quickly becoming evident that the others would not make it in time. They would find his sword at the cliff edge and realize his fate, but it would be too late for Aramis. He was going to fall.

His fingers cramped again and he felt tears fill his eyes. Waiting for the inevitable was a torment he could barely comprehend, but he could not bring himself to let go and accept his doom. Aramis knew he could cling to the rock for only minutes more, alone and battered, until his body finally betrayed him to his death.

He felt exhaustion sweep over him until even the fear was almost too much to maintain.

The others would be too late. He was going to fall. He didn't want to die, but there was no escape this time. How could there be? He could almost accept the fact now.

He hoped Porthos and Athos wouldn't take it too hard. He hoped they realized that there wasn't anything anyone could have done to save him.

Aramis rested his head against the rock face. It wouldn't be long now.

He didn't open his eyes. He felt his fingers spasm painfully, but they kept hold. His legs shook relentlessly and Aramis could no longer feel his toes.

Not long now.

His body would fall. There would be open air and a moment of terror and then he would break upon the waters below and his body would shatter and the waves would close over-

"_Aramis_!"

The sound was almost lost to the wind.

"_Aramis_!"

He heard it again. It sounded like Porthos . . .

Aramis opened his eyes and raised his head as much as he dared. Through the rain, he could barely make out the blurred shape of Porthos staring down at him. He was so far away . . .

Aramis couldn't reply. He was utterly exhausted and couldn't even feel relief at seeing his friend had arrived. He pressed his face back into the rock as the wind tried to pluck him away once more.

"Hold on, Aramis!" Porthos begged. "For God's sake, hold on! We're going to get you up!"

Aramis absurdly felt himself wanting to laugh, but he couldn't manage even that small expenditure of energy. His friends had come, but it was only going to be in time to see him die . . .

A scuffle above him.

Muffled curses.

Loose soil falling around him.

Movement beside him.

A hand in his shirt collar.

"Aramis!"

His eyes flew open and Aramis was surprised to find that he'd closed them at some point.

What he saw made no sense to him at first.

Athos, dressed in his shirtsleeves, gripped the rock beside him, tension and concern evident on his face. A long rope was tied around his waist and led back up the cliff along the grassy slope and to the safety of the flat land above. He buffeted in the wind as he held one hand on the rock and the other on Aramis.

Aramis was too exhausted and breathless to speak, but Athos didn't seem to expect much in the way of conversation.

"Aramis, I'm going to tie this rope around you and Porthos will pull you up. Just hang on, you're going to be fine."

Without waiting for a reply, Athos positioned himself slightly behind Aramis, trying to help support some of the stricken man's weight while tying the rope around his middle. Getting the rope between Aramis and the cliff proved almost impossible as he was pressed so fully against the rock, but a particularly strong gust of wind dislodged him just enough for Athos to pull the rope through and tie it tightly.

"Porthos! Get the horses moving!"

Aramis let out an alarmed cry as his body jerked, his fingers reflexively gripping the rock harder. It took a moment to realize that he wasn't falling. He felt the pull from the rope, but he could do nothing to assist. He could not will his fingers to let go.

"We have you, Aramis," Athos said calmly in his ear. "We won't let you fall."

The other man reached over and gently pried Aramis's right hand free of its death grip. Aramis latched on to Athos's wrist instead and concentrated on trying to breathe. There was not enough air.

It was not long, and yet far too long, before he felt his body crest the edge of the cliff. The steep grassy slope felt like solid ground compared to the windswept perch that had been his world. The rope continued to draw him upwards until strong hands finally gripped him and pulled him the rest of the way, not letting go until he was well away from the danger of falling over once more.

Athos's wrist was pulled gently from his grasp and Aramis looked up for the first time.

He could see the Musketeers' horses still walking sedately away, heading for the shelter of the nearby trees. The ropes had been tied to their saddles and the horses had drawn Aramis and Athos up the cliff with no greater effort than if they had been pulling a small cart.

Aramis was dimly aware of Porthos using a dagger to cut the rope linking him to the horse and he felt his forward motion cease. Porthos handed the dagger to Athos as he was drawn past and Athos made quick work of his own line.

"Aramis?" Porthos questioned urgently. "Are you hurt? Are you all right?"

Again he felt the urge to laugh. How could he be all right? The wind howled, sending another blast of icy rain into Aramis's face. He closed his eyes.

"Porthos?" This time it was Athos's voice as the other Musketeer sank to the ground beside them.

Aramis could hear them talking about him, but he just couldn't respond. He drew in deep breaths, marvelling at the feeling of the air filling his lungs. His head spun and his bones ached. His fingers felt broken and they hurt tremendously.

"We need to get him to shelter," Porthos remarked and Aramis was aware of being hauled upright and held firmly between his two friends. They carried him to the trees and no sooner had Aramis felt his body touch the ground than he gave in to complete and utter exhaustion.

* * *

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide as he envisioned Aramis's ordeal.

"It was a very near thing," Athos stated softly, his eyes fixed on the fire. "If there had been just one more opponent to best, we might not have made it in time. As it was, we were far too close."

"It was a miracle he managed to hang on as long as he did," Porthos agreed, a sombre expression crossing his face. He remembered the horrible dread he had felt as he looked over the edge, hoping to find his friend alive, but never expecting to.

Aramis shrugged. "Though it was apparently too long for the taste of our _friend_. He would have preferred I had simply fallen before you got there."

"When you refer to this _friend_, do you mean your _cargo_?" d'Artagnan asked, remembering the mission that had brought them to the cliffs in the first place. "Why would he have wanted you to fall?"

"Our _friend _didn't want to wait for us to save Aramis in the first place," Porthos snorted, anger evident in his expression even after three years. "Apparently, he believed his news was too important to wait and he needed to get to Cardinal Richelieu right away. He kept saying that Aramis had made a _noble sacrifice_ and that we shouldn't negate it by staying around and getting killed. Even when we made it clear that we were not going to stop looking for Aramis, the fellow just stayed in the trees moaning about getting rained on."

"Surely he wasn't _that_ heartless!" d'Artagnan protested. "What kind of man could leave another to die for no reason?"

The other Musketeers looked at him in disbelief.

With a sudden rush, d'Artagnan remembered his own recent brush with death. "_Ah_," he said with a grimace. "Right."

"This fellow was a very disagreeable one." Aramis redirected the conversation as he took another drink of wine. "All he did was mutter about our slow pace on the return trip, complain about the weather and make unreasonable demands about food and accommodation."

"Which, of course, made us move slower," Porthos grinned. "With no particular timetable, we weren't expected back for days, which gave us time to make the man miserable. Also, poor Aramis could hardly move, so going slow made sense."

"I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought I was on the cliff again," Aramis admitted lightly, running his hand through his hair with a faint smile. " It was several days before I was able to sit a horse without fear of falling off."

"It was several days before he was able to do much of anything," Porthos corrected. "He was in quite a bit of pain seeing as how he'd strained everything in his body holding on to that cliff. It was ages before his fingers worked properly again."

"And for weeks afterward, anything higher off the ground than a carriage would lead to bouts of dizziness," added Athos. "We worried constantly as his rooms were not on ground level."

Aramis smirked, answering the light teasing by raising his wineskin in a mock salute.

"And yet, you're fine now," d'Artagnan marvelled, looking at Aramis with something akin to awe. "I've seen you at the top of tall buildings. You've positioned yourself on walls and fought on high ground so many times, I would never have guessed that you had suffered so much because of heights."

"Fears exist to be conquered," Aramis replied, a serious note creeping into his voice. "It was an awful experience to be certain, but I overcame it. I couldn't in good conscience let it beat me after the fact."

"And, he finally realized that, despite what circumstances made him believe at the time, we had his back." Porthos gave said back a hearty slap, almost sending Aramis sprawling. "We would never have let him fall."

Aramis nodded in agreement. "A sad day that would have been. The women of Paris would have wept bitter tears."

The men laughed, but Aramis allowed himself a moment to contemplate. He hadn't been entirely truthful when he claimed his fears had been utterly vanquished. There were still nights in which he woke, tangled in his blankets and drenched in sweat, believing himself to be back at Étretat. Overcoming his fears had been a difficult prospect, but it was made easier by the knowledge that, even when he had given up all hope, his friends had come for him. They had come out of nowhere and plucked him from death's grasp.

"There is no shame in having fear or doubt, d'Artagnan," Aramis finally said. "What's important is to remember that there are others who will help you face it." He tossed the wineskin to the Gascon, who smiled in response. "I've told my tale of woe; whose turn is it now?"

Porthos and Athos both drew sharp breaths and glanced at each other for a moment. As though a small battle of wills was going on, the two narrowed their eyes before Porthos seemed to give up.

"Fine," the large man sighed. "I'll go next."

D'Artagnan wordlessly handed the wineskin to Porthos, who frowned when he realized how little wine was left.

The large man cleared his throat. "It was only a few weeks after Aramis had his horrible experience that I had one of my own. It was early-autumn and the weather was already turning far too cold for my liking."

"This is the one you're telling?" Aramis asked in surprise. "I thought for sure you'd tell him about-"

"This is the one I'm telling," Porthos growled, raising a hand to forestall any arguments. "You wanted me to tell about the time I thought I would die alone. That time, I had no doubt you two lunatics would either save me or die with me. This time, though . . ." He let out a long breath.

Aramis nodded and remained silent, exchanging a quick glance with Athos.

Athos frowned at the campfire, but said nothing.

Porthos looked over to d'Artagnan and the young man was startled by the haunted look that had come over the normally gregarious man. "This time . . . I truly believed that I would not make it out alive."

TBC


	3. Fire

I'm so sorry about the delay for this chapter. Real life got away from me.

Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed! :-)

Note: I'm going to put a warning on this one. It does deal with fire. I found it difficult to write, so for some people it might be difficult to read.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Fire**

Watching the fire for a moment, Porthos seemed to be collecting his thoughts. "It was supposed to be an easy mission. We were sent to find the carriage and horses of some minor noble or other. They'd been stolen out in the middle of nowhere west of Paris and he was left to walk to the nearest town."

Aramis glanced at Porthos before putting some more kindling on the fire. "Of course, the noble reported the theft to the highest authorities and they were appalled at the audacity of the highwaymen to behave in such a way to a gentleman."

"Of course," d'Artagnan nodded in mock seriousness.

"It seemed like a simple task," Porthos continued. "After all, from what information we'd gotten out of the noble, the thieves had been on foot. That meant that they were most likely locals and were probably after the horses more than the carriage; horses being easier to trade, you know."

D'Artagnan nodded once more.

"We fully believed that the carriage had been disposed of by that time," Athos chimed in. "It would have been difficult to sell it and madness to keep it as it was highly recognizable."

"Let me guess . . . they didn't dispose of it?" d'Artagnan said, a hint of a smile on his face.

Porthos let out a laugh. "They weren't the most clever of men, that's for certain. It also wasn't the dumbest thing they did."

"What would that have been?"

"Thinking that killing Porthos would cover their other crimes," Athos answered gravely.

* * *

Porthos smiled charmingly at the lady of the house, who eyed him with undisguised hostility.

"I don't know anything about that," she practically growled, slamming the door soundly in Porthos's face, not allowing him the opportunity to question her further.

The Musketeer let his smile melt away, revealing the annoyance he truly felt. This was the third home in which he had been treated rudely and it was starting to wear on him. While he was not as charismatic as Aramis, Porthos was by no means the type of man to elicit such heated responses. At least, not without trying.

No, there was definitely something going on in the little village. It was the closest settlement to the site of the robbery, making it the first stop on their search. With any luck, they wouldn't need to make any others.

He stepped away from the door and glanced around once more.

The settlement was comprised of crude wooden structures. There was no sense of permanence to the community. Everything, from the hastily constructed fences to the use of weather-beaten boards as a bridge to cross the nearby stream, spoke of widespread poverty.

If it hadn't been for the sheep, Porthos would have questioned what kept the villagers alive at all. The soil was rough and rocky, truly only good for grazing, though it didn't stop the people from trying to eke life out of the bleak landscape. The wooden shacks and ramshackle barns would provide little protection from the coming cold. With winter's arrival, the people would be hard-pressed to survive.

He sighed again, walking to what passed for the main street and heading to the next home. Porthos could only hope that Aramis and Athos were having better luck. The three men had split up at the last crossroads to cover more ground. Aramis had gone to the fields to question the herdsmen and the few men still trying to gather anything they could from the land, while Athos had gone to check for signs if the carriage had been dumped in a nearby marsh.

That had left Porthos to question the inhabitants of the little village in which he currently found himself and he was not having good luck.

Drawing his cloak tightly around him, Porthos shivered slightly in the icy breeze. It was unseasonably cold and undoubtedly it would snow in the next few weeks. The thought filled the Musketeer with irritation. He hated being cold.

He walked slowly along the dirt road, readying himself for another useless interview with another angry woman. Even if they did know something of the theft, they would never betray their sons and husbands to a Musketeer. Seeing their poverty, Porthos could hardly blame them. The proceeds from those horses could mean the difference between lasting out the winter and dying of starvation.

Still, as much as he sympathized, Porthos had a job to do. If he didn't conduct it properly, others would be sent in his place and they would likely not be as kind-hearted as Porthos.

He was still trying to come up with a way to both recover the horses and protect the villagers when he noticed something.

There were deep ruts in the frozen ground.

In the time he'd spent walking the area, Porthos had seen no sign of a cart large enough to make such a groove. The mark would have to have been made several days ago when the ground was still soft . . .

He followed the trail and, sure enough, he eventually came across the mark of a hoof imprinted in the solid earth. The off-centre placement of the print showed that it was one of at least a pair of horses pulling a large carriage.

The townspeople had no horses.

Porthos sighed. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

The only place to conceal the carriage would be the dilapidated barn at the edge of the settlement. Following the rough path, Porthos approached the building cautiously.

The door was tightly closed, but there were spaces between the wooden planks where the Musketeer could see inside. Sure enough, the gleam of polished wood met his eyes and Porthos swore softly.

He was going to have to fetch the others.

A sudden noise had Porthos spinning to face whatever threat was about to reveal itself, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid the wooden board being swung at his head.

There was a flash of pain and Porthos dropped like a rock to the cold earth.

* * *

Pain was the first thing to reach through his hazy mind and pull Porthos to full consciousness.

The large man lifted his head and blinked to try to clear his vision. It was dark, but he could make out the fact that he was in the barn. His head pounded and his neck was stiff.

He let out a low groan as he looked around. The barn had clearly not been used for animals in several years and was evidently being utilized for storage. Several stacks of loosely-baled straw were piled along the walls. The villagers were clearly keeping anything and everything that might prove useful to them, from pieces of bent metal to broken pottery and cookware.

Of course, the missing carriage stood before him in all its glory, looking out of place amongst the rubbish.

Porthos found himself bound tightly to a support beam, with the rope winding several times around his torso and his wrists pinioned securely behind him. He was sitting on the packed ground which was strewn with loose straw. The cold was quickly numbing his limbs, but he could not worry about that yet.

He was not alone.

His return to consciousness had apparently startled his captors, three men who stood at the far end of the barn and regarded him with barely-disguised alarm. One was an older man with hints of silver in his hair, but the other two were barely more than boys.

"No cause for all this, right?" Porthos groaned against the throbbing in his head. "Let me go and I won't take any offence."

The men stared at him.

Porthos tugged meaningfully at his restraints. The men didn't move.

"Nothing has been done that can't be fixed." Porthos kept his voice calm and even, hoping he could reason with them. "All I need to do is to say that I recovered the carriage along the trail somewhere and it'll be over. No one needs to know you were involved at all."

"Maybe he's right, Uncle," the taller of the two boys said softly. His dark hair hung into his eyes, and he carefully avoided looking in Porthos's direction. "No one wants to buy the carriage anyway. The only people wealthy enough to even _need_ one won't buy from us, that's for sure."

The older man shook his head. "Use your brain, boy. You think he's going to just walk away and forget that we did this? No. It's too late for that. We need to think of something."

"Well, short of killing him, there aren't many options, are there?" the other boy spoke quietly. He didn't show any reluctance to look at the Musketeer. His gaze was calculating, but not malicious, as though he were merely trying to address a problem rather than planning to kill someone.

"You lot don't strike me as killers," Porthos pointed out, feigning unconcern, though he was alarmed at how quickly the conversation had turned to murder. "Even if you were, killing a Musketeer is a good way to ensure that you get a lot of unwanted attention."

The shorter boy grimaced, finally pulling his attention away from Porthos and back to his companions. "He has a point. Apparently, there was another man in the fields talking to people. It won't be long before he comes here. A missing Musketeer is going to get noticed."

Porthos bit back a smile as they mentioned Aramis. His friends would be finishing up their own investigations, if they hadn't already, and would be seeking him out soon. He only had to play for time.

"Please, Uncle," the first boy spoke again. "We need to let him go. He promised-"

"He _promised_?" the uncle cut him off. "We can't take him at his word. He'll return with guards and they'll take us away! We'll be hanged, boy! Who will look after your mother and sisters then?"

The younger men glanced at each other, uncertain of how to respond.

Porthos shook his head, not wanting the boys to capitulate to the older man. "I gave my word and I'm an honourable man. I'll take the carriage and leave you in peace. No one will trouble you over this."

"It's too late." The older man sighed and pushed the younger men to the door. "You boys head home. I'll deal with this."

"But, Uncle-"

"Now, boy!" the man's tone brooked no argument and the younger men reluctantly heeded his orders.

He watched them depart and sighed again as he turned back to the trapped Musketeer. The man grabbed the lantern hanging by the door and made his way over to a pile of rusty tools sitting just inside Porthos's range of vision.

"What are you doing?" Porthos asked, a touch of anxiety filling him as his captor sifted through the discarded metal.

"I'm looking for something sharp," the man replied softly. "You shouldn't have to suffer."

The first stirrings of panic began to set in an Porthos pulled heavily on his bindings. There was no give, but he twisted his hands uselessly behind him. "You can't seriously be planning to murder me in cold blood!" he protested, wondering how he'd so severely misread the situation. _Usually, he was so good with people . . . _ "Theft is a long way from murder! A few missing horses can be overlooked, but murder is something that really _will_ bring misfortune on your entire village!"

Apparently finding a tool that suited him, the man walked closer to Porthos, feeble light spilling from the lantern in his hands.

"Not on the village," he replied. "Only on me. I apologize for this, but the boys took your weapons somewhere when you were unconscious. It wouldn't seem right to kill you with your own sword in any case."

"You're going to sell my weapons, too?" Porthos snapped in anger.

The man crouched to the ground, setting the lantern and weapon beside him before looking sadly at his prisoner. Every aspect of his countenance radiated weariness. "I don't expect you to understand. Life here is hard and we don't have the means to relocate. I fully expect many of the children won't last the winter. There is little food and even less protection from the cold." He ran his fingers through his greying hair. "I must do whatever I can to save as many of them as possible and if that means relieving some spoiled nobles of a small portion of their wealth . . . so be it."

Porthos leaned his head back against the post to which he was bound. "I do understand. I grew up in the Court of Miracles, always worrying about where the next meal was coming from, watching people I loved grow sick and die." He fixed an iron gaze upon the other man. "Even then, there were lines I didn't cross, and murder was one of them."

With a sad grimace, the man pulled the tool into his grip and rose to his feet. "You are a better man than I, monsieur. I lament this act, but there is nothing else I can do. May God forgive me."

With that, the man drew the sharp shard of metal back and prepared to drive it home into Porthos's chest. Thinking quickly, the Musketeer pulled his leg back and kicked the man in the stomach as hard as he could.

Air was violently forced out of the villager's lungs and the man fell to the ground as though felled by an axe. The weapon fell from his hand and Porthos stifled a disbelieving groan as the lantern was knocked over.

Still gasping for air and holding his arm across his stomach, the man looked up in horror as tendrils of flame shot across the straw-strewn ground. The dry material burned easily and the fire, aided by the oil from the broken lamp, spread quickly.

Swearing mightily, the man leapt to his feet and tried to kick the flames out, but he only succeeded in spreading the burning straw farther. As more straw caught fire, the man swore again, panic rising in his eyes.

He looked at Porthos and the Musketeer felt his heart sink as he knew what would happen next.

"Don't do it," Porthos shook his head, pulling uselessly at his bindings.

The man trembled and gaped as the dry wooden walls caught blaze and his barn began to burn in earnest. He stumbled back towards the door. "I'm sorry!" he cried as he fled to the safety of the cool evening.

He slammed the door behind him as though hiding Porthos from view would erase the fact of his presence.

"Damn it!" Porthos cried, struggling frantically. He pulled even as he could feel blood welling at his wrists, but he could not loosen the ropes.

It wasn't long before the fire was in full force, burning both the stored items within and the boards of the structure itself. The dry materials blazed heartily, filling the barn with thick, rolling smoke.

Porthos struggled, coughing as the dark grey fumes curled around him.

Now would be an excellent time for his friends to arrive and save him.

The heat of the fire was growing and the Musketeer keenly felt that the barn could not withstand the destructive force of the flames for long.

Beside him, the lacquer on the carriage began to smoke.

He forced himself to try to stay calm, a task becoming more difficult with each passing second. He wrenched at his wrists and bit his lip to keep himself from giving voice to the fear rising within him.

If he started screaming, he would never stop.

Coughing, Porthos could do nothing to free himself and felt the panic swelling within him.

He had seen the effects of fire before. In the Court of Miracles, they had burned what they could to stay warm and sometimes the flames had taken on a life of their own. Porthos remembered all too well the fear he had felt as he watched the buildings burn and the thought that he was now trapped inside one made the terror all the more encompassing.

Where were the others? They had been so close! Surely Aramis was done speaking to the men in the field! Surely Athos would not have lingered too long at the water's edge! They had to be coming. They must have realized he was missing by now! Even if they had taken their time poking around, he knew that the smoke from the flames must certainly already be visible over the settlement.

He needed them. He didn't doubt they were coming, but what was taking so long?

Porthos started slamming his body back against the post in frantic motions. The heat from the fire was building and the space was dark with smoke. He couldn't get enough breath.

The heat was intense and he felt his skin growing hotter. His heart pounded madly until he thought it would burst inside him.

Outside, he could barely hear the sounds of the alarmed villagers as they exclaimed at the sight of the burning barn. The roar of the fire filled his ears and his own harsh coughs left his ribs aching.

The fire was above him now and Porthos braced himself in the certainty that the roof would collapse at any moment. The carriage burned bright and hot beside him as though taunting him. Porthos hated the fact that he would die over a rich man's carriage. This was not the death he had ever envisioned.

_Where were the others_?

He couldn't draw enough breath to call loudly, but he tried.

His cloak caught fire.

Porthos looked on in horror, unable to smother the flames licking at his clothing.

This was it. The others wouldn't make it in time. The flames licked closer to him, drawing up his clothing as he watched in mute terror. His struggles were frantic. Bits of ash and debris began to fall from the burning roof.

Porthos wanted to scream now, but it was too late. All he could do was gasp for what little air remained.

He couldn't stand the intensity of the heat and Porthos felt himself giving in to the crushing weight of the smoke in his lungs.

He could no longer draw breath deeply enough to cough. He felt the thick smoke swirling around him. The fire roared, sounding almost alive and furious, hungry to devour everything in its path.

There was no more time for a rescue. Porthos fought to breathe, his body already giving in to the inevitable. His skin felt tight and the heat was unbearable. No one would be able to save him now.

The flames were bright and the smoke was dark. They swirled around one another, fighting for dominance, and Porthos knew that haunting contrast would be the last thing he would see in this life.

A dark burst of smoke came rushing toward him and Porthos instinctively cringed, expecting a blast of heat. Something solid hit his feet and Porthos weakly moved his legs away from the object. Porthos felt his head roll backwards, hitting the post and he blinked up in disbelief as he saw an indistinct human form through the maelstrom of smoke.

A hand gripped his knee before finding its way to Porthos's shoulder. From there, the hand found the ropes that bound him.

Through his red-rimmed eyes, Porthos could finally make out Aramis's grim face as the other man focused on his task.

The other Musketeer had his dagger at the ready and he quickly cut through the ropes holding Porthos to the post. Porthos felt himself sagging forward, unable to fight any longer against the intense temperature and desperate need for air. His head spun and he felt as though his skin itself were on fire. His eyes were too hot. There was no relief from the scorch of the flames.

Aramis didn't try to speak, but pulled Porthos's arm over his shoulder and tried to drag the larger man to the door. Porthos tried to help, but he was dead weight and too much for Aramis. The large Musketeer fell to the ground, dragging Aramis with him. They were both feeling the effects of the smoke, but Aramis stubbornly kept trying to pull Porthos to safety.

There was another swirl of activity and Porthos felt his other arm grabbed in a secure grip before he was moving swiftly to the door and the fresh air outside.

Crossing the threshold was like plunging into a cool lake. The air was icy on his skin and Porthos found himself unceremoniously dropped to the ground as his body was thumped by many hands.

He couldn't breathe, nor could he protest the manhandling he was receiving.

Rolling slightly to escape the hands, Porthos found himself staring at Aramis's boots. He could barely make out the shape. His eyes were pained and his vision blurred, leaving Porthos with a new fear rising in him. He opened his mouth to speak, but only coughs came out. He still couldn't draw enough air. He struggled, too weak to fully panic.

"It's all right," Aramis rasped, coughing himself as he tried to smother the flames on Porthos's cloak. "We have you. You're all right."

A wet blanket was thrown over Porthos, effectively quenching the areas of his clothing that had begun to smoulder. The cold was such a relief after the intolerable heat that Porthos wanted to weep. He couldn't manage tears. His eyes felt far too dry.

_His eyes . . . _

The blanket was then pulled off and Athos was there, using the wet fabric to wipe the soot and grime from Porthos's face. Porthos reached up weakly, holding the blanket over his eyes even as Athos stopped him from rubbing them.

"Gently, Porthos," Athos said, his voice catching. "Don't scratch them. Let Aramis look at you."

The blanket was carefully lifted and Aramis was once again in Porthos's line of sight, still blurry, but clearing with every blink. Porthos couldn't stop coughing, but he could see his friends. The relief he felt was overwhelming.

Porthos felt his chest would burst from the force of the coughs tormenting him. A skin of water was held up to him and he drank gratefully, the cool liquid only partially soothing his sore throat.

Exhaustion and pain caught up with him and Porthos found it difficult to hold up his head. He could hear Aramis speaking, anger evident in his voice, but Porthos no longer cared to listen. He let himself go, drifting off knowing that his friends were there.

* * *

Silence greeted Porthos as he finished speaking. He looked up to see d'Artagnan shaking his head and was surprised to find that the young man looked horrified and angry.

"Are you all right?" Porthos asked.

"Am _I_ all right?" d'Artagnan responded incredulously. "Porthos, that was awful. That man left you to burn! You're lucky to be alive!"

"I am," Porthos agreed lightly. "Just as I'm lucky that there was a stream nearby to quench the flames and we're all lucky Aramis didn't kill anyone in the aftermath."

At d'Artagnan's questioning look, Athos explained. "He made the would-be murderer highly repentant of his crimes. He also ensured that it would be several days before the man would feel able to make an attempt to run away. It was . . . excessive, but understandable."

Aramis shrugged as all eyes turned to him. "If you had been there, you would have done the same," he told d'Artagnan. "The barn collapsed shortly after we pulled him out. If we'd been any longer . . ."

"What happened after that?" the Gascon questioned.

Porthos shook his head sombrely. "The man who tried to kill me was shunned by the other villagers. They knew about the thefts, but his actions after had made things so much worse. None of them would condone murder."

"Did you arrest him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis smiled faintly. "Porthos proved himself to be very forgiving. He felt the man's punishment would be best served trying to amend for his misdeeds rather than dying for them."

"You didn't want justice?" d'Artagnan asked, looking to Porthos.

The large Musketeer exhaled slowly. "If he'd been anything but a starving man trying to protect his family, then yes, I'd have hauled him in by the scruff of his neck. As it was, I was in a position where I could make a choice. If I had arrested him, I'd get revenge, but a family would lose their provider. It just didn't feel like justice to me."

"It doesn't seem like there's going to be a happy ending to this story," d'Artagnan muttered.

Athos sighed in agreement. "There was no satisfaction for anyone in that situation. Obviously, Porthos survived, but the villagers lost their barn and many of their winter stores."

"The carriage was destroyed," added Aramis. "The horses had already been sold, so the hopes of finding them were negligible. Without the carriage or horses, we had nothing to take back to Treville and the nobleman, meaning we failed our mission."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Surely something survived the fire . . . metal framing, or a wheel?"

"If a carriage had been in the barn when it burned, undoubtedly that would be so," Athos began with a meaningful nod. "We had to leave quickly in order to ensure that Porthos got proper medical attention. When we returned to investigate the fire further, there were no such signs. Clearly, the carriage had not been present."

"In other words, you told them to make certain there would be nothing to find by the time you got back?" d'Artagnan surmised.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Porthos grinned. "That would be remiss in our duties. It's true, though, that none of us shed a tear at the lack of evidence. The villagers had suffered enough. The last thing they needed was the wrath of the nobles coming down on them. Besides, the noble in question had already bought a new carriage and a team of horses. He wasn't suffering overmuch."

"We did get a scolding from the captain for failing to locate the carriage," Aramis pointed out. "It was a black mark on our otherwise unblemished records."

"No satisfaction for anyone," Athos repeated his earlier sentiment.

"How did the villagers fare that winter?" d'Artagnan finally asked, dreading the answer.

Porthos frowned sadly. "It was a difficult winter everywhere, but with the loss of their supplies, everything from tools to the straw they were going to use for warmth, it was incredibly harsh for them. We tried to help where we could, but it was bitter and cold. They had some money from the horses and I think that's the only thing that saw most of them through it."

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "And the man? Did he redeem himself?"

"He turned out to be handy at many things. We helped where we could, giving him odd jobs here and there." Porthos shrugged. "He worked hard to make amends, right up to the end. He died last winter."

A reflective silence fell over the campfire.

"These stories bring a certain melancholy gloom to our otherwise cheerful gathering," Aramis observed wryly.

"Agreed," Athos stated quickly. "Perhaps we should retire for the evening."

Porthos laughed. "Nice try, but you're going to tell your story, too."

"It isn't as awful as burning, is it?" d'Artagnan asked, frowning at the thought.

"Athos just doesn't like speaking of personal matters, in case you hadn't noticed," Aramis teased. "Besides, while we were guilty of momentarily doubting that our friends would save us in time, Athos never had any faith in us at all."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in shock.

Athos rolled his eyes. "Don't tell him things like that, Aramis, he'll believe you."

Aramis raised a finger in protest. "You can't deny that you didn't believe we were coming for you!"

"If you had followed the plan-"

"If we had followed the plan, you would be dead," Aramis interrupted triumphantly, as though winning an old argument.

D'Artagnan looked from one man to the other in bemusement. "Will someone please tell the story?"

Porthos grinned. "It was early spring, not quite a year after Athos had joined the Musketeers. He was still getting used to our ways, and Aramis and I were the only ones who'd put up with him and his moods."

Athos sighed. "Captain Treville had sent us to retrieve some dispatches from one of his colleagues. There were numerous political factors at play in those days, as now, and England was rumoured to be seeking the support of dissident French noblemen to cause rebellion throughout France."

"We never found out exactly what was written in the reports," Aramis added, "but they definitely referred to a particular French nobleman because he sent a great number of his men to retrieve them."

"So, there we were," Porthos said in a low voice, trying to set the scene. "Three men against a score of riders who were hell-bent on getting the documents at any cost. It was early morning when we first spotted them and the chase began . . ."

"A score?" Aramis questioned, one eyebrow raised. "I remember there being about a dozen."

"Who's telling the story?" Porthos challenged.

"Athos is," d'Artagnan interrupted, looking at the older man.

Athos took a sip of wine. "So, there we were . . . three men against a group of riders numbering somewhere between a dozen and a score-"

"Tell it properly!" Aramis admonished.

Athos ignored him. "-who were hell-bent on getting the papers at any cost. It was early morning when we spotted them and the chase began . . ."

TBC


	4. Water

At long last, here's the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Water**

"How many?" Athos asked as Aramis lowered his spyglass.

The other man shook his head. "At least a dozen . . . probably thirteen or fourteen." He turned to his companions. "Too many."

Porthos growled. "I hope you aren't suggesting that we run away. You know how I feel about that."

"Be that as it may," Athos stated, "we cannot allow these documents to fall into their hands." He patted the leather satchel that contained the sealed documents. While they weren't permitted to know exactly what information the papers contained, the Musketeers were well aware that, to certain people, it was worth killing over.

They had taken every precaution possible to avoid attention, even to the point of taking to the roads well before the sun had risen. The men had not stopped at inns, choosing instead to rest where they could in the forests along the route. Despite the chill in the early-Spring air, they had avoided lighting fires. Treville had been adamant that the mission had to be completed successfully, no matter the cost, and the three men would have been happy if the only cost had been tired, aching bodies and a lack of hot food.

Alas, it was not to be.

"We certainly aren't going to avoid attention for long," Aramis observed needlessly. He had secreted his spyglass somewhere and was looking at the other men with a frown.

There were too many men to fight without risking the papers. Hiding the satchel was not an option. They needed another plan . . .

Athos thought for a moment before reaching into the bag and pulling out the tightly bound bundle contained within. He handed it to Aramis.

"You ride south and then head west towards Paris. Stick to well-travelled roads and try to blend in." He turned to Porthos. "You head west, ride for a good while and then turn south. Make certain they can see you, but don't _look_ like you're making certain they can see you."

"What are you going to do?" Porthos asked with a frown.

"I'm going to ride directly southwest for Paris with the dispatch bag in full view. With any luck, they'll think I still have the papers and follow me, leaving Aramis in the clear to get the real documents back to Treville."

"What makes you think they'll fall for it?" Aramis asked sceptically.

"We have to hope that they do," came the reply. "I don't see any other way that doesn't risk the papers."

Aramis shook his head. "What if they realize it's a diversion?"

"Then they'll all chase you. Porthos and I will be free to circle back to take them from behind," Athos said, glancing at Porthos for confirmation. "Otherwise, as long as they're chasing one of us, the longer we can keep them off your trail and the better your chances of reaching the garrison."

"I don't like splitting up," Porthos countered, "but we don't have time to debate it. They have fresh horses and more men. They'll catch us eventually. At least this way, we can try to mislead them."

Athos let the corners of his mouth turn up into what might almost have been a smile. "Aramis, do your best to stay invisible while Porthos and I deal with our unwanted guests. No matter what, you need to get those documents to Treville."

Aramis reluctantly nodded his acquiescence and carefully folded the papers inside his jacket. "Last one to the garrison buys the drinks?" he proposed with a faint grin.

"Sounds like a plan," Porthos responded. He slapped Athos on the back and nodded to Aramis. Athos felt like he missed some sort of silent communication passing between his companions before Porthos rode off, heading west.

"Good luck," Aramis called to Athos as he turned his horse south.

"And to you," Athos replied, watching only for a moment to ensure the other men were safely away before heading off towards Paris.

Their pursuers were still a fair distance back, but Athos was reasonably certain that the leather satchel he carried would be visible to anyone with a spyglass. As plans went, Athos had to admit that it wasn't one of his better ones. He hated dividing forces in the face of superior numbers, but there had been no time for other options.

He didn't know Porthos or Aramis very well, but he knew that they were both resourceful men and he could only hope that they would make it back safely. There were many leagues between them and Paris, and the way would be very dangerous. All he could do was try to keep as many of their enemies on his own trail as he could.

It seemed to be working, as it wasn't long before Athos saw the first signs of pursuit.

He had not wanted to push his horse too hard this early in the chase, but the other men seemed to have no such compunctions. Despite his best efforts, they were gaining. He rode as quickly as he dared, glancing behind himself from time to time in order to gauge the enemy's progress. It appeared that there were perhaps seven or eight men following him; a number that both worried and relieved him.

On the one hand, it meant that he was more than likely going to die if they caught up to him. On the other hand, it meant that Porthos and Aramis had only a handful of pursuers each, which greatly improved their odds of survival.

Unfortunately, it also meant that riding directly to Paris was no longer an option. With that many riders on his trail and a horse that had already been ridden many leagues in the past few days, it was only a matter of time before they overcame him. Once that happened, they would realize he didn't have the documents and would set off after the other Musketeers.

He needed a new plan.

Athos kept on the path until he felt that he had led them far enough from his friends' routes before leading his horse into the trees. Hopefully, he could double back a bit, riding far enough from the road that the men wouldn't spot him. With good luck, they would ride right past him. With his usual luck, they would notice his trail and hunt him through the woods.

Either way, it was better than just letting them overtake him.

Picking his way carefully through the trees, Athos strained to hear any signs that he was being followed. His horse was grunting, tired from exertion. Athos rubbed the horse's neck comfortingly, but kept the animal moving.

It was some time before he finally felt the distance between himself and his pursuers was great enough to risk stopping momentarily at a fast-moving stream. There he paused, allowing his weary horse to rest and drink. The water was incredibly cold and a light steam rose from it as it flowed along.

Athos kept an eye on his surroundings, aware that his position was not yet secure.

After a short while, Athos began to follow the stream as quickly as his horse could manage on the uneven ground. The stream would eventually lead him to a settlement and he could make his way back to Paris by road from there. He wished he knew how Aramis and Porthos were faring, but acknowledged that he could not help them at the moment.

His horse gave a small snort of nervousness and Athos reached for his pistol in response. He couldn't see anything, but his horse was not typically an uneasy one. Something was out there . . .

When it came, the attack was sudden.

It was only one man, as far as Athos could tell, and he sprang from behind some trees with his pistol readied. Athos moved to aim, but the other man shot first, causing the Musketeer's horse to cry out in pain.

Before he could react, Athos's horse was falling, sending both animal and rider over the banks of the stream and into the frigid water.

The impact with the water forced the air from Athos's lungs. For a moment, there was nothing but swirling water, flailing limbs and terrible cold.

Panic took hold as Athos found himself submerged, his left leg trapped between the body of his horse and the deep mud at the bottom of the streambed. Struggling against the shock of the cold water, he reached out until he managed to grab the edge of his saddle and used it as leverage to pull his head above the water.

Gasping for air, Athos desperately tried to pull his leg free, but it was mired in the thick sludge and pinned firmly under his horse's weight. He cursed, but the mud was probably the only reason his leg hadn't broken in the fall. He scanned the tree line, certain that his attacker would be coming to finish him at any moment.

The water was so cold it felt like fire, sending tendrils of burning pain throughout his body.

The water wasn't deep . . . if one were standing. Normally, Athos wouldn't have hesitated to walk his horse across it. From his prone position, however, the water was almost deeper than Athos could manage. Holding the saddle as he was, his shoulders barely cleared the water. His horse was almost fully submerged and plainly had been felled by a lucky shot. The animal hadn't moved since the attack.

Athos cursed creatively, suddenly realizing that he had lost his weapon in the fall and subsequent scramble to avoid drowning. He reached behind him to feel for his pistol, but the current proved too strong for his one-handed grip on the side of the saddle and he found himself once again submerged.

Managing to regain his hold on the saddle, he pulled himself up again and abandoned the search for his weapon. The powder would be too wet to ignite, anyway. Grimacing against the constant onslaught of the icy current, he managed to hold himself out of the water long enough to grip his main gauche and transfer it to his right hand. It wasn't the best option, but it was as good as he could hope for under the circumstances. His sword was pinned beneath him and it was all he could do to keep his head out of the water.

A flash of movement caught his eye and he spotted his attacker walking calmly toward the stream. His movements and bearing betrayed him as a mercenary . . . that and the small armoury Athos could see concealed about his person.

"Well, this is fun," the man smiled, stopping at the bank mere feet from where Athos lay trapped. "I thought you'd be a challenge, yet here you are."

"Help me out of the water and I'd be more than willing to provide you a challenge," Athos responded, gasping through gritted teeth.

The man laughed. "I'm only interested in the papers you carry."

"More than likely ruined by now," Athos observed, shivering in the icy water. He didn't bother correcting the man by telling him the papers were hopefully already halfway to Paris. His fingers burned with the cold and all he wanted to do was get warm. His head was pounding and he felt as though he couldn't catch his breath as his body tried to adjust to the frigid temperature.

"Just so," the man agreed. "I do wish you hadn't fallen in the water, though. I just bought new boots, you see, and I have no desire to ruin them wading out to you."

"We all have our problems."

"Yours seems to be the fact that you're going to drown in about two feet of water. Perhaps you'll freeze to death first." The man looked thoughtful at the prospect, as though weighing the possibilities.

"What is your plan for avoiding wet boots, then?" Athos questioned, ignoring the taunt and trying to hide the increasing tremors that ran through his body. He kept trying to pull his leg free, but he couldn't afford to let his growing distress show in front of his enemy.

The man shrugged. "I'll simply wait until the others catch up and have someone else do it."

"Ah," Athos responded simply. "You're not alone, then. I had hoped to avoid you altogether, you know." His teeth chattered mercilessly.

"It was a good attempt to circle back," the man replied with a polite nod. "Unfortunately for you, we have an expert tracker who spotted your trail leading into the woods. Sadly, not everyone believed him to be an expert tracker, so they only gave him a few men while the rest went on the original path."

"Let me guess," Athos managed to reply. His teeth were chattering and the words were becoming difficult to form. "You're the expert?"

The man gave a mocking bow. "I guessed you would be following the stream and rode ahead to cut you off. One man may ride faster than several and with less noise, after all. The others will be along in a bit, I'm sure."

Athos felt his limbs growing heavy. The burning pain in his fingers was growing incredibly intense. He didn't have much time before he wouldn't be able to fight back. "I'm sorry you're going miss them." Before the other man could react, Athos pulled back his right hand and flung his main gauche at the mercenary.

It was far from an ideal throw. He couldn't fully control his hands, and through the shivers that were tormenting him and his awkward angle, Athos hadn't been hoping to do anything more than injure the other man. Luck, apparently, had other ideas and the blade struck the man in the neck, sending him to the ground instantly.

Athos looked on in shock. He'd been aiming for his torso.

Through his violent tremors, he tried to see if the man lived, but all he could make out was the bottoms of his new boots.

Athos turned back to his own predicament. If he couldn't get out of the water soon, it wouldn't matter if the mercenary was alive or how many men were coming. It had only been a few minutes and Athos already felt as though he'd been in the stream for hours. The water was near freezing and his shivering was becoming intense. He tried using his right leg to push on his horse's back, but he could not get his left leg free. Kicking in frustration, Athos almost managed to send himself under the surface again.

Athos's hands were numb, and holding himself out of the water was becoming more and more difficult. He managed to partially wedge his right hand between the saddle and the blanket to take some of the strain off his fingers, but he knew it wasn't going to work for long.

He blinked, exhausted from his efforts and the constant shivering, when the realization struck him.

He was going to die.

He was going to die, alone in the woods, trapped under his horse.

His enemies were now the only ones who knew where he was, and it was unlikely they would pull him out of the water. If he was lucky, they might shoot him instead of simply watching him freeze to death. Porthos and Aramis wouldn't know that he had left the road. They would wait for him to ride back to the garrison, but he never would again. Athos hoped they wouldn't blame themselves. They would never know what had happened to him.

They wouldn't know where to look for his body.

The idea bothered him a little more than he thought it would. In his increasingly jumbled mind, Athos acknowledged the fact that it wasn't as though he actively _avoided_ dangerous situations. Death was always a possibility. Athos couldn't have predicted the possibility of this particular death, though, and the thought that Aramis and Porthos might be burdened by guilt at his disappearance was a disconcerting one.

He knew firsthand the insidious nature of guilt and would not wish it on either of his gregarious companions. The fact that he was worrying about two men he barely knew _while he was dying_ was surprising to him.

More surprising than that, though, was the realization that he didn't _want_ to die. He had always maintained a certain disregard for his own mortality. He drank too much, fought too often, and tried his best to do everything on his own. Now that he was trapped alone in the cold, he found that more than anything, he wanted someone to save him.

It was too late, however. The only two men who could possibly help him were riding as quickly as possible in the opposite direction because he had asked them to. He had brought this on himself.

He didn't want to die like this.

There was nothing he could do to prevent it, though. He could only hope it wouldn't be much longer. The trembling was starting to ease, but the bitter chill had seeped into every part of him leaving only agonising pain. His muscles felt so tense he thought his bones might break under the strain. He just wanted the pain to stop. The water was so cold and he was so tired . . .

Athos felt himself shift as his left hand began slipping off the saddle. His hands felt like blocks of ice attached to his numbed arms. Absently, he tried to readjust his grip, but his right hand wasn't responding properly. Athos tugged at it, sending himself sinking lower in the water before remembering that he had wedged his right hand under the saddle against just such an eventuality.

He stilled his movements.

Death was so final. He wondered if his wife would meet him on the other side. Would she forgive him? Was there even the possibility of Heaven for either of them? He wanted to reach for her locket, but he couldn't make his limbs respond to his commands. Something told him he shouldn't move his hands . . . . He couldn't really remember why, though. It was hard to think.

He was so cold. His thoughts were confused. He'd been pondering something . . .

_Right_. Death. Maybe he would die before the other mercenaries arrived. His body hurt. He hoped Aramis and Porthos succeeded. They were good men. At least the shaking had stopped . . .

So tired.

He heard voices and turned his head to the bank.

Three men stepped out of the trees and ran to their fallen comrade.

Athos watched dispassionately as the men realized what had happened.

"That fellow killed him!" one exclaimed, pointing to Athos.

Athos merely blinked in response.

"He's dead already," another one replied, looking at Athos carefully. "He just doesn't know it yet. Get the papers and we can get our money."

"But he killed Renaud!" the first man exclaimed.

"Fine! If it bothers you so much, you can kill the Musketeer, but get the papers!"

Athos watched disinterestedly as the man drew his sword and stepped carefully into the stream. At least it would be over soon.

The man swore colourfully. "It's so cold!"

The Musketeer felt his attention drifting again, but he no longer cared. By the time the man reached him, Athos was already unaware.

* * *

"Why do you keep doing that?" d'Artagnan asked in irritation. "Every one of you just _ended_ your story right in the middle. Aramis just as you pulled him up the cliff; Porthos just as he was saved from the barn; Athos . . . you didn't even get to the saving part!"

Athos shrugged unapologetically. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd realize that I was not aware of the rescue."

"Meaning he's out of wine, cranky, and tired of talking," Porthos chimed in with a laugh. "Aramis and I saved him."

"But you were on different paths and leagues apart by then!" d'Artagnan protested, unsatisfied at the explanation. "How could you have saved him?"

Aramis sighed, glancing at Athos briefly before turning to d'Artagnan. "Porthos and I realized that if most of the mercenaries followed Athos and the dispatch bag, we might have a chance of taking out our own pursuers. If we could do that, then we could go render aid to Athos. He was unquestionably going to need it. That was, after all, in the days before he had much sense of self-preservation."

Athos shrugged in response. He didn't argue.

"It was also in the fairly early days of our friendship," Porthos added. "We weren't certain how he'd have reacted if we told him we weren't going to follow the plan . . . so we just didn't tell him. It seemed easier that way."

"I had three men on my tail and I managed to take them down. It was difficult, but I succeeded. I was then free to circle back." Aramis resumed the tale before gesturing for Porthos to continue.

Porthos nodded. "Same here. Three men, took two by surprise and the third one with a good shot. For mercenaries, they weren't all that impressive. I cut across country and tried to guess how far Athos would have made it in that time. I met up with Aramis before long and then we went after Athos."

"We pushed our horses a little more than was wise," Aramis frowned. "It paid off, though. We saw the trail showing where the mercenaries had split up. Five horses went into the woods, one being Athos's, and three continued on the road."

"We followed the tracks into the woods and got there just as they were going to kill Athos. We killed them instead."

"It took some doing to lever the horse up enough to get him out from under it," Aramis explained, remembering the icy cold of the water and the blue-tinted features of his friend. He'd held Athos's head up while Porthos used rocks and a stout branch to lever up the horse. It had been very close. "If we'd been any longer, he would have simply drowned. As it was, he was as cold as death."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos with an expression of horror that was quickly becoming familiar to the Musketeers.

"I was fine," Athos stated calmly. "At least, I was until I woke up wrapped in every cloak and bedroll in the vicinity and with Aramis and Porthos trying to smother me."

"You were freezing!" Porthos protested. "We were warming you up!" The large man turned to d'Artagnan. "That's also when we learned that it's not a good idea to be close to him if he's startled awake."

Athos blushed slightly. "I did apologize for that. I expected to be dead, not . . . _cuddled_."

"Athos, please," Aramis snorted. "You looked like a half-drowned kitten. Your attempts at violence were truly adorable."

D'Artagnan glanced over at Porthos, grinning as the big man slowly shook his head and grimaced. _Apparently not so adorable, then._

Athos sighed as he glanced down at the wineskin, wishing whole-heartedly that there was still wine in it. "Aramis was right when he said that I didn't have much sense of self-preservation in those days. I always expected to die alone." He looked back up at d'Artagnan and the younger man knew that Athos would likely never again speak so frankly about his fears. "I had lost all hope and had no illusions about my chances for survival. When I found out the lengths these two had gone to in order to keep me alive . . . that's a very rare thing, d'Artagnan."

"It took a while for that lesson to take hold, though," Aramis complained with a small smile. "We're still working on the drinking, but at least he's toned down the self-destructive tendencies. We don't have to work nearly as hard to keep him alive as we used to."

Athos let out a snort of amusement.

"What about the other mercenaries," d'Artagnan questioned. "The ones on the road?"

"They eventually came looking for their friends," Porthos explained. "They found us instead."

"So the three of you took out _thirteen_ armed men?"

Aramis grinned. "Technically, Porthos and I took out twelve men. Athos only managed one."

"And yet I did it while pinned under a horse and freezing to death," Athos countered dryly. "It should count for more."

D'Artagnan grinned as the older men began to bicker over their fighting prowess. He gazed up at the sky and was surprised to note that many hours had passed while the group had been talking.

He'd almost forgotten the reason for their lengthy conversation in the first place. He glanced over at pile of rocks that hid the cave in which he'd nearly died. Not since his father's death had d'Artagnan felt such helplessness. Never before had he felt such hopeless fear, and the shame that his fear might cause him to lose the respect of his friends had been all the more horrifying to him.

It seemed obvious now, but he had never even considered that those same men might have had moments like that as well.

Each man had faced the possibility of dying alone and each one had come through the hopelessness stronger than before.

They hadn't been judged for their fears or their resignation to their fates. Instead, they had realized just exactly how devoted their friends, their _brothers_, were.

It was a strange thing to suddenly realize the depth of friendship he shared with these men. They would do anything to protect one another and now d'Artagnan was one of them. Of course, as Musketeers, they would still ride into danger, but d'Artagnan knew that with these men at his side -

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis interrupted lightly, realizing that the young man's mind was elsewhere.

"I'm fine," the Gascon replied, smiling slightly. "Just thinking."

"Oh?" A raised eyebrow greeted his statement. "Anything interesting?"

D'Artagnan shook his head with a smile. "Just that I'm glad to have you all as my friends."

"Judging by your expression, our terrible memories have at least wrought some good," Athos observed, noting d'Artagnan seemed greatly unburdened.

"All in a night's work," Porthos added lightly.

"It takes a while for it to sink in, but we will watch your back d'Artagnan." Aramis spoke again, his voice unusually sombre.

D'Artagnan looked at his three companions, each of them regarding him seriously. For them, Aramis's words were nothing less than a solemn vow, one that d'Artagnan reciprocated wholeheartedly. He smiled back at them. "Of that, I have no doubt."

The End


End file.
